(Summer) I walked alone, under the blistering sun. Dehydrated, agonized and scarred; The heat shattered me, levigated me to dust.
(Fall) Blended with the loam, scattered all around, I was sheltered; under the fallen foilage. I was nourished and fostered, by the yellow-orange shades of bliss.
(Winter) The milky crystals started falling, wrapping earth with flakes of purity. Frozen and soldified, I descended to the pool of dormant, waiting for the pupa to break.
(Spring) Blessed with life, I germinated to the joyous world, stretching the viridescent arms. Graced by sunlight, and beatified with water, I blossomed, marveling eyes of all. And he called me, "the purple tale of love."
"That cake is so beautiful, isn't it?", Emma said "Indeed", Peter replied. "If we were the toppings, that young man and the lady" "Then?", he asked. "I want you to tell your thoughts as if you are seeing me for the first time", she said. "I will write it down for you", he said.
I saw her, on the snowy icing, embellished with powdered sugar. My perfect girl, in a purple gown, spinning under honeyed snowflakes, to the rhythm of sprinkles. Is she a fairy in disguise, or an angel from heaven. Her wings are gleaming, with caramel crystals. The halo above her, radiates the divinity of candied berries, like a goddess, in human form. I stood motionless, far away from her, a topping ornating this gateau, deep rooted in the moist chocolatey earth. Yet, I feel light as a feather, floating in the air. For she is the blessing, I much awaited.
The hue of void spread it's wings, and hid the eternal flame. While I floated in limbo, she emerged from nihility and plucked a feather, creating a crevice of glow. Tired and stressed, she dropped the bag and stared at me, surveying the edges of her reflection. Her intense look, nullified the barrier, as if I am not her reflection, rather I am her. Slowly, my lips moved. Pouring out her thoughts, loud and clear.
"Long, short or bald, blue,green or pink, I will adorn my hair, the way I like. While you resonate my ear drum, starting with the length of my dress, the spectrum of my friends, the peak of my dreams, the depth of my age, the girth of my body, the nobility of my caste, and the colour of my skin. Why is it that your eyes, go down to my chest, Is my face not fair enough for you? Or the scars on my face, traumatize the 'don't cry' will of yours? Oh sorry, You are being solicitous, about my happiness, about my welfare, about my life. Yet, phoney words and leering, deciphers the fake and amoral trait of yours, unveiling the unscrupulous, misogynistic person. And darling, who are you to judge me? What right do you have on me? Enlighten me, dear plaster saint."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the coldest day of winter, I met her in a narrow corridor. Disturbed, agonized, mortified, she scuffled with me, before fading away. Her soul was like a snowflake, pure and light. Slowly, time melted, resurfacing the season of flowers. In the tranquility of darkness, I saw her again, six feet deep, shrouded by soil graced by the holy cross. The roots held her, closer to their heart. The blossoms, glazed over the grave, percolating their life to revive her. The leaves, swayed under the north wind, murmuring hymns to wake her. Sheltered under the shade, she is at peace.
Raindrops descended, crafting tremors of gelidity on my cheeks. The beads kept falling, and it grew from puddle to pool. I went in, grabbed some paper. Rectangle, triangle,square; The old print transmogrified. My ship, the crusader of waters, nightmare of Kraken, "The Ghost", helmed through the sluggish water. She receded from me, pitching with the ripples. Water is here, at my door step, tingling my toes with dampness. Amma was packing things, her face, shimmering like an angel. I asked her, "Can we live in a ship?" She cracked a smile, and asked me why. "When it rains we leave home, unless we live in a ship." All of a sudden, she embosomed me, and a droplet kissed my cheek. A warm scintillating drop, that fell from heaven.
It's not your fault when you say the truth, even if I camouflage my wrinkles and hoard the already gone youth. I see rainbows chasing me and everyday sun getting brighter, that's when you show me the waves of loneliness curling up at my seashore. The end is near and I step down barefoot in different shoe, that's when you point at the creases of my palms and ask me who are you. ~Purva
I want to write a song for you With the ink of my blood that's turning blue With the rhythm of your breath that tickles my soul With the love I hold beneath the firm hole But I can't find the right words to define you Looking in your dark eyes all I can see Reflection of your past keeps shining through The pain the glory, all hurts and smiles Your parched tattered lips seems as a blank canvas to my eyes Alluring me to write it with the softest quill of feather Your skin glitters with the love like the sand under the shimmering sky I want to write a song for you But the words can't find its place When I am looking at you... @writersnetwork@mirakee
The November nights are cold and wintry, humming a melancholic tune amidst the howling winds . The warmth of the burning hearth reminds me of my grandma's touch and the soothing melodies, a healing balm to the weary soul. The night is moonlit, with the frozen river reflecting the moonlight and the solitary streets smell of hot chocolate and freshly baked comfort buns. The pine trees rustle, kissing the winter wind, unnoticed, and the song of the crickets fade as they go into hibernation. All I have is a burning candle and a book and some somber summer stories. The snowflakes descend like a gentle lover, stealthily yet in an elegant way and the green field turns silvery white, wearing a deserted look as children abandon their day's play. The field reminds me the transient nature of life, the fading petals of youth and aging like a wine, when spring vanishes and winter descends, to fall into a deep slumber and never wake again. November is that disguised old lady, brewing coffee fumes and staring towards the windowpane, waiting for death to come knocking.